Weighted
by thir13enth
Summary: Oneshot. His father's death still haunted him.


**Hey again readers, just another angsty piece of work...Kakashi Hatake's view point...He's talking to his father...**

**Enjoy...**

**Midori Fujiwara**

* * *

At first, I was indifferent  
about passing through this part of  
Konoha.  
But as soon as I stepped  
out onto the block from around the corner,  
a chill ran over  
my skin.  
Despite the hot day,  
despite the long sleeves,  
the hairs along my forearm prickled.  
The hair on  
the back of my neck rose  
as if  
someone's  
cool breath  
had passed over them.

The street was  
empty,  
the air  
weighed down  
with death,  
weighed down  
with hushed constrained speech,  
weighed down  
with heavy dark satisfaction  
and  
fake  
remorse and pity.

I looked over at an approaching  
building, a home  
that seemed more empty,  
more heavy,  
than its neighbors.

It was here.

It started with the  
war.  
You were sent out to the battlefield on  
an extremely  
important  
mission  
that would determine  
the survival  
of the village in warfare.  
They picked you because they knew  
you were one of the best;  
you were  
considered  
equal  
to the Legendary Sannin in shinobi  
skill and rank.  
Highest  
of the jounin.

Every  
one  
in Konoha  
knew you,  
respected you,  
loved that you lived among them,  
celebrated your mere existence.

It  
was  
great to be a Hatake.

But then you  
came home.

You came home with  
nothing,  
carrying and hauling  
your  
near-dead teammates  
who had went with you on  
the mission.

You came home with  
no victory,  
no success.

Konoha realized this immediately,  
and for the  
first time,  
you came home with  
no  
cheering crowd.

Even I was unsure how to react.

At first, the villagers are all concerned.  
They asked you what had happened  
out there.  
You answered  
gravely.  
You answered  
that you could not  
sacrifice  
your teammates.  
You answered  
that you choose  
their life  
over  
the mission.

At once you were  
shamed.  
Such a weak emotional shinobi,  
they called you.

The disgrace  
of the village.

Hostile they were.

The village went  
into a  
depression  
right then and  
everyone  
put the blame on  
you,  
breaking into our house and  
stealing whatever they wished.

We could not  
stop them.

You locked yourself into a room,  
depressed.  
Mother didn't dare to resist and  
fight back.  
Mother held me against herself  
to protect me.

Hostile they were,  
they beat Mother for marrying  
and loving  
such a disgraceful man.  
They beat  
me  
for carrying  
your  
blood.

Never did I imagine that the human species  
would forget  
so easily.  
Forget what you  
were  
to them before your fatal  
mistake.

Years later, there was still  
hostility, but  
which had simmered  
some  
by that time, now that the village saw how  
our family  
suffered  
now  
in poverty.

They saw it as  
payback  
for what  
you  
had caused.

Humiliated  
I was,  
no one could stand seeing  
my face,  
your  
reflection,  
around them.  
I wore a  
mask  
but could not afford to dye  
my hair.

Centuries it  
seemed like,  
but it was  
only  
a few years.

You couldn't take it.

You took  
your life away that one day  
I  
came into your  
locked room.  


I  
watched  
you pass away  
with the weapon  
of your  
death  
in  
your own hands.

The villagers gave us their  
pity.  
The same villagers who had  
driven you  
to your  
death.

It was their  
fake pity  
that hurt  
more than  
your  
death.

In truth they were glad you committed  
suicide.  
They  
believed  
you would eventually  
have to,  
as every other  
shamed  
shinobi had done.

Once they  
celebrated  
your mere existence.

Now they  
celebrated  
your very death.

How sad, the villagers remarked,  
without a  
tear  
in their eye.  
I could not believe what I saw,  
this world has failed me.  
All of reality  
seemed  
no longer  
real.

Or maybe  
it was  
I  
who had  
failed  
this world.

After all,  
hadn't  
you  
saved the  
lives  
of your comrades?  
Did their  
lives  
mean anything at all?  
Would the family and friends of the  
saved  
really be happier if the  
saved  
had come back  
dead  
in your hands?

I didn't think so.

They would have been  
worse  
to us.

I never  
truly knew  
you  
after  
you  
came home  
that day,  
since you locked yourself  
and your grief  
into that  
room.  
You turned into a different person  
after  
you  
came home.

I know you're haunting me.

I know you're trying to tell me something.

But I don't know  
what  
you're trying to tell me.

And you will haunt me  
forever  
until I  
understand  
what you're trying to tell me.

I doubt  
I will  
ever  
understand.

I doubt  
you will  
ever  
get off my back.

I remember  
that day;  
you spoke no word to me  
as I entered  
your room.

You held  
your precious weapon  
in your hands,  
laying it straight across your arms as if you were  
respectfully offering it to someone—  
no one really, because  
no one was in there  
with  
you.

You had your window open,  
the red  
sunset's  
last  
rays shining into the  
darkness  
of your  
room,  
casting a silver sheen across your  
blade.

I had entered without making a racket  
but you knew  
I had come in because you  
were facing  
south,  
the sunset  
on your left,  
the door and I directly to your  
right.

You knew  
I was there  
yet  
you acted as though I  
wasn't  
and gave me no indication that you knew  
I was even  
there.

Calm as ever  
you  
swung your  
blade,  
its point denting in the clothing at your  
abdomen.  
The benign dent was  
deep;  
I was astonished at how  
thin  
you had  
become  
from not eating,  
at how  
pale  
you had  
become  
from inactivity,  
at how  
weak  
you had  
become  
from depression.

The point  
of the blade is  
against  
you,  
both your hands grasp the hilt of the  
sword.

I knew your  
intention  
and I reacted as quickly as I could,  
running up to you and  
pushing the  
blade  
off to the side, where it clattered raucously  
against the floor.

But you  
stop me  
from taking even  
one  
move  
when  
your face turns toward  
me.

You  
smile  
at me,  
weakly,  
but with  
true  
emotion.  
A  
smile that was  
pure happiness,  
yet  
which was backed by  
grief and melancholy,  
unspoken dissatisfaction  
and  
depression.

You then pushed the  
blade  
through  
yourself,  
and I knew  
you had not  
missed  
when you  
fall to the side,  
blood  
pouring out of you,  
staining the floor  
forever.

Blood red as the setting sun.

And so  
without you,  
I moved on.

I grew  
into another one of  
you.

As your  
son, I carry  
your legacy.

The legacy which  
no one  
believes in.

Because to them  
you  
are nothing.

I grew through  
another generation;  
the ones who had  
shamed  
you  
were close to their  
peaceful  
endings.  
I have grown out of  
hell  
but I do not  
know  
what I have  
become  
to those around me.  
I am not a mind-reader,  
I only  
know  
even the new  
generation  
was told  
nothing  
of you,  
and if there was something,  
it was to  
dismiss you  
because you took your  


compassion  
instead of shinobi  
law.

I don't know if I  
regret  
not having a childhood.

I don't know if you  
regret  
me not having one.

My childhood was  
broken. I  
was forced to  
grow  
quickly.

If life is a  
tower,  
then I have built mine  
too  
quickly, full of  
mistakes.  
My  
tower  
does not  
balance  
as it should,  
leaning,  
my  
life  
about to  
fall.

I will feed on my own remorse.

I will drink my own tears.

I will feel only my pain,  
your pain  
passed on.

For me there is no one else to lean on.

And I will carry the guilt on my back until I die.

And even then the weight will drag me to  
hell.

* * *

**So...what'd you think? In other words, leave a review, yes?**

**Midori Fujiwara**


End file.
